


What Do You Do With a Nearly Broken Inquisitor?

by InnerMuse



Series: Broken [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Dark, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Red Lyrium Cullen, Rescue, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2018-05-02 17:30:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5257388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InnerMuse/pseuds/InnerMuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Inquisitor was captured by red Templars and tortured by what appeared to be the former Commander of the Inquisition's forces – and her lover. How does the story end?</p><p>Several possible epilogues, arranged roughly in order of darkest to lightest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Finish Breaking Her

**Author's Note:**

> Which one is true? It doesn't matter, it's all an AU anyway – so pick whichever one you like the best! <3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Also known as, "The Evil Ending."

"I have something for you," Cullen said. No— that was wrong. It wasn't Cullen. She had to remember that. He said he loved her, but Cullen never would have hurt her, would he?

"Kelandris?" She looked up dully. He was holding a vial in one hand, offering it to her. It glowed the same color as his eyes, she noticed. He nudged her, pressing painfully on one of the many gashes in her skin. "Take it. You'll feel better." She stared at the swirling scarlet light leaking through his fingers. The shifting patterns of red on red were hypnotizing, like the gentle drip-drip of the blood that ran down his gauntlets when he caressed her. She shouldn't drink whatever was in that vial, Kelandris knew that much— but she couldn't quite remember why.

"Please?" Cullen said softly.

She drank. The world turned into fire.

It took a few minutes before she could stop screaming. That was okay – she'd gotten used to screaming. She felt as if molten metal was pumping through her veins. Every heartbeat spread the burning further until it pulsed and seared through every inch of her body. But in the wake of that fire... The only word she could think of was _power_. When she finally regained her senses, her Commander was smiling down at her.

"Better?" He asked. Kelandris considered for a moment. She was still in agony, from all the torture she'd endured and the new flames he'd kindled inside her as well, but it didn't seem to matter very much anymore. She felt... stronger. Revitalized. That sense of power was still there – it _burned_ , searing her chest with every breath. It was raw, primal, savage, untamed and untamable... and Kelandris decided she rather liked it.

"Yes," she said, "Better." And then, "Cullen?"

"Yes?"

"I love you."

"I love you, too, Kelandris."

~~~~

Cassandra had been out in the field when the report arrived from acting-Commander Rylen: the Inquisitor had been found. No one else had been close enough to respond with any haste – rather than wait for backup, the Seeker had stopped at an Inquisition camp just long enough to gather supplies before setting out. Her mission was simple: find and rescue the Inquisitor.

As she strode through shadowed hallways, armored footfalls ringing off the dark stone, Cassandra reflected that infiltrating a red Templar stronghold alone, even a small, isolated one, may not have been her most brilliant plan. But she had always been brash, and she _would not_ let her friend languish in the clutches of these monsters for one minute longer than necessary. A ring of keys jingled at her belt, taken from the body of a corrupted Templar slain three corridors ago. She descended ever deeper into the bowels of the fortress, opening doors, searching rooms. Several times she startled more of the lyrium-infested Knights – all fell to quick, brutal strokes of her blade.

Finally, in a dank underground passage, she unlocked one final cell and found what she was looking for. The Inquisitor lay sprawled against a red lyrium formation by one wall, apparently asleep, half in shadow despite the dim crimson glow.

"Inquisitor?" Cassandra called softly. The prone form before her stirred slightly.

"Cassandra?" A rough-edged mumble.

"Yes – thank the Maker you're alive. It took so long to find you, we feared the worst..." She faltered as the Inquisitor sat up. The flickering torchlight revealed the state of her bare torso: dozens, if not hundreds, of angry scars crisscrossed her skin, most barely healed. Even a few of the wounds they represented would be enough to make the most hardened warriors flinch. To bear so many... Cassandra could hardly fathom how the Herald was even conscious, let alone sitting under her own power.

When she shifted her gaze to the Inquisitor's face, she received her second shock: the woman was smiling. Her strange grin looked almost... predatory. The shifting light of the hallway torch glinted oddly in her eyes.

"Inquisitor?" The Seeker asked again, the back of her neck prickling with unease.

The Inquisitor didn't respond, merely rested a hand on the lyrium crystals she had been leaning against. "Wake up, Cullen, love," she said, "We have a guest."

Cassandra's eyes widened in horror. "No," she whispered, "It cannot be—" The mass of crystals beside her shifted and turned, resolving into a hulking form in all-too-familiar armor. The Seeker did not stop to question what she was seeing. Her sword came free of her scabbard with a ring of steel. The sound was swallowed by a hissing crackle as the Inquisitor brought the Anchor sputtering to life—

And bathed the room in ruby light, not emerald. 

In the sanguine glow, two pairs of identical crimson eyes stared back at her, set in familiar faces wearing identical hungry smiles. Kelandris's left hand blazed scarlet, precisely the color of the red lyrium that spiked the former Commander's armor. Cassandra stood rooted to the spot in horror.

"Hello, Cassandra," said the red Templar that used to be Cullen, "It's good of you to join us."

 _Oh Blessed Andraste,_ the Seeker thought distantly, even as she raised her blade, _Where is your Herald now?_


	2. Rescue Her

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Also known as, "The Angsty-Yet-Very-Mildly-Optimistic Ending."

It had taken far too long to find the Inquisitor. Really, it should not have been that hard – the woman had a bloody glowing hand, for Andraste's sake. Varric had been starting to think that maybe _he_ should be spymaster instead of Leliana (Curly was still missing, too – honestly, Nightingale, step up your game!), when finally one of her agents came through with a lead. Cassandra had wasted no time, practically grabbing him and hauling him out the door as soon as they'd heard the news. Cole had appeared as they saddled their mounts, looking more morose than usual – "Everyone is afraid without her," he'd muttered. Varric quietly agreed. Skyhold had been grim and subdued with both the Inquisitor and her Commander out of the picture. He rather suspected the rescue party might find the pair of them together – and dearly hoped they weren't too late. For either of his friends.

The Seeker set a punishing pace, but Varric was not complaining. The trail led to an out-of-the-way Templar fortress – and when red Templars were involved, the sooner they could get the Inquisitor out of there, the better. It didn't take very long to reach the stronghold. Breaking in was easier than he expected, too – Bianca took out one of the pair of guards at the gate, Cole's blades dispatched the other, and Cassandra simply smashed open the door.

"Hear anything, kid?" Varric asked once they were inside. Cole shook his head with a grimace.

"Nothing specific... there's so much pain here. Blood and red lyrium, soaked into the stone, whispers of captives facing countless days and nights in agony – it gets worse farther down. But that's where we should look, isn't it?"

"Let's go," said Cassandra grimly, leading the way.

Two flights of stairs and several butchered red Templars later, Cole abruptly staggered against the wall with a small cry.

"Kid? You alright?"

"She's so _loud_ – usually the Anchor makes her too bright, but now there's so much pain that it doesn't matter— Maker, please, make it stop, it hurts, it _hurts_ , and it's so much worse because it's him, but it's not it's not it's _not_ — I want him back, please, Maker, stop, _**please**_ —" Cole broke off, shuddering. The Seeker made a strangled noise of horror deep in her throat, with which Varric heartily agreed.

"They're torturing her..." She pointed out – unnecessarily, in his opinion, since it was pretty obvious and they were wasting time – "Cole, _where_?"

The kid visibly got a grip on himself and straightened. "Down at the bottom... I can find her. Come on, I have to help!"

They didn't need to rely on the spirit's uncanny senses to track the Inquisitor, it turned out. Once they got close enough, they could hear her screams echoing down the corridor. A heavy metal door barred their way at the end of the hall – rather than fool around with picks, Varric simply ordered his companions out of the way and blasted it open with an exploding crossbow bolt. He ran inside after the Seeker, Bianca at the ready, but skidded to a halt when he took in the scene. Cassandra had her blade buried to the hilt in a red Templar's back, and in front of them... the Inquisitor was chained against the wall, covered in blood and scars both old and new. She had stopped screaming, at least, but that was about the best that could be said of her condition. The lines of red crisscrossing her flesh told a story of almost unimaginable suffering. 

Varric felt slightly sick. Holstering Bianca, he hurried forward to help.

~~~~

Kelandris hated having to watch as she was tortured. When she was face down on the slab of stone across the room, she could at least pretend it was some other red Templar wielding a brand or flaying the skin off her back. Pinned against the unforgiving stone, face to face with her tormentor, there was no way to ignore the fact that it was Cullen. No, used to be Cullen. It wasn't him anymore. It was _not_ Cullen who was busily carving his initials into her thigh, even when he looked up at her with Cullen's smirk curling up the corners of Cullen's lips—

Abruptly, he stopped cutting her. She broke off mid–yell, panting. Her captor looked down in surprise at the six inches of bloody steel that suddenly protruded from his chest. Kelandris stared, uncomprehending. Wide-eyed, she looked on in confused horror as the blade withdrew, scraping against crystal and bone with a grinding squelch. Finally realizing what was happening, she looked back at her tormentor's face. His gaze flicked up to hers, its crimson light dimming—

For one brief, heartrending moment, she looked into the honey-soft eyes of her Commander, filled with unbearable, unending anguish even as the spark of life behind them faded. "Kelandris..." Cullen whispered, gurgling around the blood rising in his throat, "I... I lo..." He choked, slumped, fell.

He was gone. Dead, at last, in truth.

Her scream shattered the silence. She screamed and kept screaming, even as his body was hauled off her and cast aside, even as someone unfastened the manacles holding her to the wall and caught her as she collapsed. Cool armor, strong hands— no, no, Maker, no more, Maker, _please_ — but it wasn't him, he was— she'd just seen him die. He wouldn't hurt her anymore, wouldn't tell her he loved her, wouldn't stroke her hair or kiss her or drag razor-sharp talons through her flesh and lick up the blood that trickled down her skin...

Her shrieking subsided to sobbing as whoever was holding her laid her down gently, chanting soothing words all the while. _We've got you, you're safe, it's alright – I'm no good at this, Varric, help me out here – we've got you..._ And then another voice, lower and rougher, as careful hands started wrapping her in bandages: _Easy there, Inquisitor, we're going to get you out of here, alright? You don't have to worry about anything. We've got the kid here, he can help— shit, Maker's_ balls _, is that_ Curly _?! Shit!_

There was a long pause.

"Blessed Andraste," Cassandra whispered, horrified, "Now we know what happened to him... Maker, take him to your side. Commander Cullen deserved better than this."

Kelandris whimpered.

"No shit," said Varric softly. His big, calloused hand covered hers. "It's okay to cry, Inquisitor – you don't have to hold back. I'd be crying, too, if my lover had been... Shit. _Shit_ , that's rough. Seeker, can we move her yet? We really need to get her out of here, and away from _him_."

Cassandra was still dressing her wounds. The pain was starting to recede, somewhat, as the elfroot in the poultices took effect – the physical pain, at least. Cullen was finally, truly dead— she'd loved him even as she hated the monster he'd become, even when it was his face and his voice and his hands causing her such torment—

"He didn't want to hurt you." That was Cole. He was kneeling suddenly by her head, speaking quietly. "The lyrium took his body, but his love was too strong to take, so it twisted it instead, pulled it sideways and inside out until tenderness turned into torture, but that wasn't him. He meant it when he said he loved you, but there was nothing gentle left inside – it had all been turned to red, so there was nothing he could do. Your pain hurt him just as much – Cassandra freed you both when she killed him, in the end."

Oh. That was... good to know. He hadn't betrayed her, then, not really. She couldn't forgive him, not yet, maybe not ever – but she could love his memory, still. She could love him for the man he was before red lyrium tore them both to pieces.

"Thank you, Cole," she rasped. She felt Varric squeeze her hand. Cassandra picked her up, carefully, and headed towards the door, and freedom. Everything wouldn't be alright – nothing would be alright, not anymore – but... things might just get better, now.


	3. Rescue Her... From Yourself?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Also known as, "Kinloch Hold 2.0."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is very long – it kind of got away from me. I couldn't help it, it pushes all my buttons! The Inquisitor suffering horrible torment, Cullen being angsty because his love is being tortured and WHAT DO YOU MEAN IT WAS ME, fluffy-happy feels because they're together again, angsty-sad feels because Cullen is just one big walking trigger now...
> 
> I intended it to be rather angstier than it turned out. Also, I'm pretty sure that this particular sort of demon is not really a thing, but it's my fanfiction so it can be a thing now if I want it to be, so there!

Corrupted Templars, blood magic, and demons. They had finally found the Inquisitor, and discovered what she was facing. Cullen would have laughed at the bitter irony of it if he hadn't wanted to cry or scream instead. It was Kinloch Hold all over again, but this time he wasn't the one on the receiving end. Andraste preserve him, but he actually wished it was – better him than Kelandris. He had been through such an ordeal once already, and he would do so again to spare his beloved that torment. There was nothing he could not endure as long as she was waiting for him on the other side. But now... it was she who was forced to endure. Cullen prayed fervently to the Maker to give her strength.

Several days later a small squad of the Inquisition's finest – led by the Commander himself – and several members of the Inner Circle made camp behind a rise, just out of sight of a moldering ruin of a fortress. Cole had offered to scout, and Cullen was glad to have the spirit's aid, with his peculiar talent of remaining unseen. At least, he had been glad, before he was forced to stand around aimlessly, waiting for word. He paced restlessly – he couldn't sit still, couldn't rest, not while his love was languishing in some dungeon, probably being tortured, assuming she wasn't— wasn't already—

Cullen took a breath to steady himself. She hadn't died at the Conclave. She hadn't died at Haven. Nor at Adamant, or the Temple of Mythal, or in the final battle against Corypheus – she wasn't going to die now. But if Cole didn't return soon with a favorable report, Cullen was going to start tearing that fortress apart stone by stone, with his bare hands if he had to. Luckily, the spirit boy chose that moment to arrive back at their little camp. Unsurprisingly, Cullen was the first to get to him.

"You found her? You found the Inquisitor?" He demanded.

"Yes. I heard her. The Anchor is loud, and her pain is louder – I can track her."

The Commander clenched a fist around the hilt of his sword to stop his hand from shaking. _Her pain is louder_. "What are we up against?"

"Red Templars, mostly. They sound angry inside, and hollow, webbed with whispers, crackling with crystal. It's hard to hear much past the lyrium, or maybe there's just nothing left to hear—"

"What else, Cole?" Cullen snapped, interrupting. They had no time for his rambling.

"Blood sang in patterns on the floor. Old, not fresh, but the stones remembered and I felt it in their mages' heads. They wanted her alive and hurting, not smashed to pieces by red Templar fists. So, they summoned a demon to break her instead. I can feel it – it's too loud, sinister and strong, sated from a banquet of her pain."

Kelandris being tortured by a demon – it was Cullen's worst nightmare. But he had to know what they were facing. "What sort of demon?"

"Not fear, she's faced that before, faced and fought and conquered; not desire, either, you're the only one she wants and you're already hers—"

"I don't care what it isn't!" Cullen struggled to keep the snarl out of his voice – the spirit was only trying to help – but he had very little patience at the moment. "Cole, _what did they summon?_ "

The spirit boy looked mournfully up at him from under the brim of his hat, and spoke a single word: "Anguish."

The ex-Templar flinched. Anguish was particularly rare, and particularly nasty. He whirled around – he had to go and gather the others for an assault, immediately – but Cole's voice stopped him.

"Wait! You shouldn't go down in there."

Cullen's eyes narrowed as he glanced over his shoulder at the spirit. "There had better be a good reason why not."

"Because she thinks it's you."

"What?"

"The demon. After they called it they searched her head and found the shape that would hurt the most, then made her forget they'd gone looking so she'd think it was real."

Cullen turned back around to face the boy, heart pounding. "So, what, the demon took my form? Kelandris knows I'd die before I hurt her, she would never fall for such deception."

"No. Not you, not as you are. What you would be, if you were one of them. A red Templar."

"She thinks... She thinks they gave me red lyrium," he said hoarsely through suddenly numb lips. Cole nodded morosely. "Merciful Maker... So my showing up would be doing her no favors— Cole, please, you have to free her. You have to get her out of there!"

The spirit boy murmured acquiescence and disappeared. Cullen cursed and buried his face in his hands. _Oh Maker, why? Why would you do this to her?!_ he demanded silently. The Maker did not answer.

~~~~

Kelandris wondered if she had finally gone mad. It would be a relief, she supposed. There was no other reason she could think of for the sudden appearance of the familiar spirit of Compassion at the door of her cell. Not unless... no. She would not start hoping. Hope was bad. It only gave that _creature_ something else to crush. Madness it was, then. She was slightly disappointed – if she was insane, now, shouldn't everything hurt less?

"You haven't gone mad," said Cole, kneeling next to her. He pulled out a vial and held it to her lips. She flinched, but it smelled only of elfroot, nothing more sinister. A healing potion, and a powerful one at that, judging from the way the pain was already dimming. Slightly. But she'd been in constant agony for long enough that even a little relief felt like a blessing from Andraste herself.

"The Inquisition found you," the spirit continued, busily applying his lockpicks to the manacles at her wrists. "Cassandra wanted to break down the gates, but I convinced them to let me come get you instead."

Now she _knew_ she'd gone mad. Because if the Inquisition had come, then that meant that Cole was here to rescue her, which was frankly preposterous. She was going to die down here, gruesomely and painfully, no doubt screaming Cullen's name. The red Templar he had become would probably smile and say he loved her, even as he ripped out her heart with his bare hands.

"It's not Cullen." Cole had looked up from his work and was staring at her intently.

"I know," she muttered grimly, "He died. A long time ago. Killed, by red lyrium."

"No! It's not him, it was _never_ him— they summoned a demon to hurt you, Kelandris! They called on Anguish, then they saw your love for him and used it as a weapon. Another sort of blade, meant for stabbing minds and hearts instead of flesh— but it's all a lie, it isn't Cullen! They never caught him, never turned him. He's alive and whole and he loves you, not just for your pain like the demon does but for everything that makes you _you_ , and he would never hurt you." Her chains fell away, but Kelandris hardly noticed. She was too busy staring blankly at Cole as she tried to wrap her fractured mind around what she was hearing. "And he's waiting for you, outside," the spirit added.

That was too much. Kelandris shoved herself back, cowering against the rough stone behind her. "No. No! You're lying, I know you're lying— You can't do this to me. I won't let you give me hope so he can take it all away! Cullen is gone, he's _dead_ , and I loved him until they took him and they broke him and they turned him red and made me _hate_ him—" Her voice broke and gave out, leaving her throat aching. Yes, good, that was good. Pain was familiar – she could handle pain. It was hope she couldn't handle. She tried to crush the seed of it that Cole had planted in her heart before it grew too strong— no, wait, it couldn't be Cole, either, it must be a demon they had sent to trick her—

But if they would send one demon, couldn't they send another? Even if this wasn't Cole, his words might still be partly true. It could still be Anguish like he said, and not— No. _No_. She couldn't believe him, wouldn't, or it would destroy her when it turned out he was wrong. She couldn't lose Cullen again—

The thing that looked like Cole was speaking again, softly. "When we found out you'd been taken, Cullen punched the war table. He wanted to put his fist through the top, but the wood was too solid, so it just made his hand hurt, and then he felt stupid as well as afraid."

She didn't want to hear what Cullen would have done. It was too easy to imagine how he'd react – he'd be devastated when he heard she'd been captured, sending patrols to search for her tirelessly, praying for her safe return... Trying to punch a hole in the war table certainly sounded like something he would do— No! _Would have_ done, _if_ he were alive, which he absolutely was _not_ —

"We didn't get any news for a while and Cullen started yelling at the soldiers a lot. He accidentally made a new recruit start crying, once, but one of the scouts stopped by the barracks and assured her that the Commander wasn't a bad sort, really, as long as you didn't walk in on him while he was kissing you— Anyway, Cullen made Cassandra take over training, after that, because he was working everyone too hard, although no one really minded because they knew why he was hurting."

If this wasn't Cole, someone had done a lot of _very_ thorough research. Which was obviously what had happened, of course, but that was still a lot of detail to fabricate...

"Leliana found your trail, finally. The report she wrote described red Templars and maleficar and demons, and it made Cullen curse. He pinned the parchment to his practice dummy and hit it for a while, but then his hands were shaking so he knelt on the floor instead. He started reciting the Chant of Light, and I wanted to help him but he chased me away." The image formed in her mind before she could prevent it: Cullen kneeling in the center of his office, head bowed, candlelight glinting off the edge of his blade as his quiet voice repeated the Canticle of Benedictions, rough with memories of his past and fear for her future. _Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter..._

"Yes! That's the one." Cole read the pair of verses from her thoughts, speaking the words aloud as she recited them in her head.

"Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just.  
Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow.  
In their blood the Maker's will is written."

Kelandris almost imagined she could hear it in her Commander's voice, rich and pure and free of red lyrium's taint... She drew a shuddering breath, and threw caution to the winds.

"Take me to him," she rasped.

~~~~

Cullen thought he might faint with relief when Cole reappeared at the edge of their makeshift camp, staggering under the Inquisitor's weight. She was safe. And then he heard her moan as the boy passed her limp form to the waiting healer, and his heart clenched. He wanted to go to her, maybe more than he'd ever wanted anything in his life – but he couldn't. His face was probably the last thing she wanted to see right now. Perhaps ever. It was a painful thought, but his discomfort was nothing in the face of her suffering. If never speaking to his Inquisitor again was the price he had to pay for her safety and wellbeing, he would do so, no matter how much it cost him – but Cullen hoped desperately that it would not come to that.

Some time later, he sat behind the makeshift healer's tent, sharpening his sword for what had to be the fourth time, at least. He hadn't bothered to count. His love slept fitfully on the other side of the canvas. He'd gotten an initial report on her condition shortly after Cole had returned – to say it was bad would be an understatement. She wasn't in mortal danger, but that was hardly a comfort. Her injuries hadn't been intended to kill. And the former Templar knew from bitter experience that such ordeals left scars that went far beyond skin deep. He was becoming increasingly certain that the Inquisitor would want nothing to do with him, after this.

Still, he had stripped out of his armor on the slim chance that he was mistaken. He wanted to separate himself as far as possible from his demonic double. He'd seen the physical effects of red lyrium, the way it turned its unfortunate imbibers into hideous amalgamations of crystal and steel, all hard lines and sharp edges. Not that it would matter, since Kelandris probably didn't want to see him either way—

A muffled yell from inside the tent at his back snapped him out of his brooding. Instinct brought him to his feet in a heartbeat, but he forced himself to stay where he was, jaw clenching. He wondered what he had done, that the Maker saw fit to punish him like this – forced to hear his beloved suffer, but unable to act without making it worse.

When Cole appeared beside him, a startled Cullen nearly decapitated the boy.

"Go to her!" The spirit exclaimed. Cullen blinked, but didn't waste another moment. He shoved his blade into Cole's hands – he wasn't about to barge in on his traumatized lover brandishing a weapon – and hurtled around to the front of the small tent. He could make out her words, now, calling for him.

"—don't need more rest, I need _Cullen_ , damn it! Cole told me he was here, so where in the Maker's name is he?! No, don't you _dare_ tell me to calm down! I will not— _**Cullen!**_ " He'd ripped open the tent flap and ducked quickly inside. To his shock, Kelandris immediately heaved herself off the little cot and flung herself at him. The put-upon healer looked horrified, but Cullen had more pressing concerns. His beloved was clinging to him as if her life depended on it, smearing blood all over his tunic. He wasn't sure what to do with his hands – he hadn't thought she would want him to even touch her, let alone hold her – but he settled for carefully resting his palms against the least injured patches of skin he could find.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he said hoarsely. One he started speaking he found he couldn't stop. "I would never hurt you, _never_. Not ever, do you hear me? I'd make them kill me first. Kelandris, I love you, so much—"

She flinched and jerked back, collapsing back onto the camp bed. Cullen broke off with a sharp intake of breath. The Inquisitor was shaking, curled up as tightly as her bandages would allow.

"No, please," she whimpered, "Please, don't, no more, Cullen, please—" Cullen stood paralyzed with horror. He had only wanted to reassure her— The healer shot a glare in his direction and jerked his head towards the entrance as he bent to soothe his patient. Cullen swallowed hard, backing away. He felt cold inside. She was begging for mercy as she cried _his_ name... Exiting the tent, he stumbled back to his previous seat and all but collapsed to the ground. He sat there for a long time, staring unseeingly out over the little campsite, the sounds of his beloved's distress echoing through his mind.

~~~~

Kelandris thought she might be awake. She wanted to go back to sleep – she had been having such a nice dream. Everything had hurt less than it should, and there was a bed and bandages and Cole had been there for a while, and then— No. She wasn't going to think about that part. It would only make the day's torture hurt more than usual. Her eyes prickled, threatening tears. Maybe if she didn't move, she would pass out again and go back to dreaming of healing potions and fresh air and soft, warm hands that didn't cut and weren't dripping with her blood— No, no no no, she wasn't thinking about that part! She wouldn't think of him, she _wouldn't_ —

"It wasn't a dream." The voice startled her. It sounded like Cole – had she fallen back asleep already? "You're awake, Kelandris." No, she couldn't be awake. It just wasn't possible that this could be anything other than a dream. But it was at least another pleasant dream – she was somewhat surprised that her body even remembered how feel anything besides boundless agony. She still hurt, of course, but not as much as she usually did. It was nice. Kelandris hoped she wouldn't wake up too soon.

"You're not going to wake up from this. It's all real – I'm real, you're real, the healer is real." No. No, he didn't understand! This _couldn't_ be real, because if it was then that meant— "Cullen is real, too. Do you want to see him?"

...Oh, Maker. Yes, she wanted to see him, more than anything— She wanted Cullen back, _her_ Cullen, her Commander, with eyes that were gold and not scarlet, and fingers rough with callouses instead of crystals. She wanted to curl against his chest, firm and muscled and covered in soft skin, not sealed in armor and jagged with lyrium. She wanted him to promise not to hurt her and actually _mean_ it— but she couldn't have any of those things, he was dead, gone, corrupted, and the next time she saw him he would wipe away her tears with the tip of one crimson claw, carefully splitting the skin so that when she cried again she'd get salt in all the little cuts, and then he'd _make_ her cry again just to see her squirm—

"Kelandris? My lady?"

It was his voice. But it didn't carry that sepulchral undertone— her breath caught. It couldn't be. It couldn't be true, and yet... She had to see. She opened her eyes, and he was there. Cullen knelt beside her cot, gloriously whole and unmarred by spikes of lyrium. He was glancing anxiously at Cole, who stood beside him. Kelandris struggled against a wave of rising panic – she couldn't see his _face_ — but then he was turning back towards her, and she met his eyes. They were honey-colored and honey-sweet, brimming with concern and empathy.

"Um," he said softly, "Hi."

Kelandris simply stared at him, drinking in the sight of his familiar-yet-strange features. Her red Templar jailor had copied his face exactly, but there had been a cruel edge to his expressions that Cullen – the _real_ Cullen – lacked. She whispered his name, incredulous, hardly daring to breath.

"Yes." He almost smiled – just a twitch of his lips, anxious and somewhat feeble, but it still made her heart skip a beat. It was him, he was here – this was _Cullen._

"It's you..." she breathed. He still looked worried. She had collapsed on him, earlier, was that why he was worried? "I didn't want to scare you away, I just— for a moment you sounded like... like..." She trailed off.

Her Commander seemed to know what she meant. He shook his head. "You have nothing to apologize for. It was entirely my fault, earlier. I'm the one who should be— allow me to offer my sincerest apologies, Inquisitor. If there's anything I can do..."

His hand was resting on the edge of the bed. Kelandris stared at his fingertips as he spoke – round, not sharp, with short blunt nails, perfectly normal in every way. No crystal talons to rend her flesh. Cullen paused, but continued after a moment when she didn't answer.

"Do you... remember what it was that I said, that reminded you of— of your captivity? So I know not to say it again?"

She hesitated. She did, but... "The demon... He— it... it liked to say it loved me while I was being tortured."

Cullen paled, inhaling sharply. " _Maker_... I'm so sorry, Kelandris. No one should ever have to go through that..." He sighed. "I just wish I could take your pain away— If I could bear it on your behalf, I would do it in a heartbeat. Even if I had to bear it ten times over."

His words were so sweet, so sincere— how could she have ever believed that he could turn into such a _monster_ , edged with madness and full of rampant sadism? Unfortunately, the answer was obvious – red lyrium could twist even the most selfless of men into cruel, remorseless savages. But Cullen wasn't on red lyrium. She twitched a bandaged arm up the bed to touch the tips of her fingers to his.

"Cullen," she murmured again, hesitantly, "I think if... if I was expecting you to say it, then it would— it would be okay..." Her gaze flicked between his eyes and his fingers. He was sitting very still, being careful not to startle her.

"Do... you want me to say it?" She nodded shakily, biting her lip.

"Then, if you're sure... I love you, Kelandris." He didn't kiss her – she wasn't sure she could have borne that, not yet – but he touched two fingers to his lips and brushed them against the mattress, just beside the place where his other hand still rested next to hers.

She swallowed. Apparently Cullen could still make her cry – only this time, it wasn't pain that fueled her tears. It seemed the Maker answered some prayers, at least.

He had given her back her Commander.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could probably write more about this particular ending if anyone was interested...


	4. Comfort Her, Because it Wasn't Real

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Also known as, "The Fluffy Cop-Out Ending."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know "It was all a dream" is a terrible plot device, but sometimes you just need the dark, twisted, evil angst you wrote to have never actually happened, y'know?

Kelandris was screaming. That was hardly a surprise – she had been doing a lot of screaming lately. But it didn't hurt as much as it seemed like it should. A scream like that from her ravaged throat ought to feel like swallowing knives – this one just left her with a slight ache. In fact, she felt better than she had in... hours? Days? Weeks? Dread slid like ice down her spine— had they brought in a healer? Would she have to endure the same torments all over again? No, no, she couldn't, she _couldn't_ —

_"Kelandris!"_

A hand on her shoulder, shaking her. Cullen's voice, but Cullen was gone. That voice meant only pain, now, not comfort. She thrashed, expecting him to pin her in a grip like steel and dreading what would happen once he did—

But she wasn't getting slammed to the ground, or thrown against a wall, or crushed back against his chest with bruising force... And furthermore, her hands were free. There were no heavy manacles fastened around her wrists, and she was stronger than she had been in Maker-knew-how-long— Her eyes snapped open. Before her fear could overwhelm her once again, Kelandris let her right hand curl into a fist and slammed it into her captor's face.

Except he wasn't her captor. She caught a glimpse of his eyes in the split second before her punch rammed into his jaw – widened with worry and confusion, and unquestionably, definitively gold. She stared in shock, chest heaving and heart pounding with adrenaline as he tumbled off the bed – they were on a bed? – and scrambled to his feet, one hand pressed to the side of his face where she'd hit him.

"Kelandris, love, it's alright, it's just me! You're safe, you're awake, it's alright..."

She looked frantically down at her hands, still clenched into fists. Her wrists weren't marred by rings of torn flesh, her arms weren't covered in countless scars...

"Cullen?" She breathed. She recognized her room in Skyhold, now. Was she dreaming? Would she wake up chained in a cell next to a lyrium-riddled mockery of her lover? Her hands were shaking.

"Yes. I'm here, love. Talk to me?" The mattress dipped as he sat back down beside her. A light touch on her shoulder – Kelandris flinched. His hand jerked back as if she'd burned him. "Sorry! I'm sorry— how can I help?"

She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. "Just— give me a minute!" This was downright surreal. She took a shuddering breath, trying to sort out her tangled thoughts. Physically, she seemed to be completely fine. Mentally... She could remember going to bed in Skyhold the previous night – she'd left a candle burning on her desk by mistake, and had made Cullen get up to blow it out before thanking him with a sleepy kiss. But she could also remember spending the previous evening chained to a wall – she could recall every horrifically vivid detail. The sting of crimson talons biting into her abused flesh for what felt like hours; the crushing despair whenever she thought too hard about just whose talons they were...

She jerked her head up to look at the man beside her. He started at the sudden movement, one hand rising to protect his face. It was still Cullen, her lover, her Commander, now searching her face anxiously with his beautiful honey-golden eyes, unmarred by any trace of red. Abruptly, Kelandris needed to touch him, to feel his solid presence, to reassure herself that he was real – _needed_ it like she needed air—

"Hold me?" It came out as a desperate plea. Immediately, he was there, wrapping his arms around her, tucking her under his chin. She trembled with remembered pain and fear. His hand stroked her hair— she flinched again, letting out a strangled "Don't!" Cullen froze. "Please. Don't move, just... I just need to be in your arms right now."

His embrace settled around her once again as he whispered another apology. Kelandris huddled against his chest, pressing an ear above his heart so she could listen to it beat. The steady rhythm soothed her. Slowly, she relaxed. Her nightmare had been far more vivid than a normal dream, but some of the harsher details were already beginning to fade. After a while, she felt calm enough to stop clinging to him like a drowning woman clutching driftwood in a storm.

"Cullen?" She shifted a little so they could talk more easily. "Promise me something?"

"Anything," he answered, without hesitation. His unwavering trust in her never failed to send warmth blossoming in her chest.

"Promise me you'll never so much as touch a vial of red lyrium."

He drew a sharp breath. "Never – I swear it. I want nothing to do with that foul stuff. Is that what you were dreaming of? Small wonder you were so disconcerted."

"That has got to be the understatement of the century."

He let out a huff, but his amusement faded quickly. She heard a deep breath rumble through his chest and felt him shudder. "True enough. I couldn't wake you... Maker, I've _never_ heard you scream like that. I hope I never have to again, it sounded like someone getting tortured—" He broke off abruptly as she stiffened in his arms.

"No – you weren't...?" He sounded horrified. She nodded against him, not trusting herself to speak coherently. "Oh, Kelandris, I'm so sorry..." His arms tightened reassuringly around her. After a moment, he added, "If any red Templars try to so much as touch you, I'll kill them myself."

She pushed away, breaking his embrace and rolling onto her back to stare up at the canopy above the bed. "That wouldn't help much if it were you."

"If what were—? Oh. _Oh._ Maker have mercy... Do— do you want me to leave? I could go sleep in my old bedroom if that would be easier—"

"No!" Her hand shot out, wrapping around his wrist. She turned her face back to him. "Stay, please? The thought of _not_ being with you right now... That would be worse."

"Of course." He settled back down, keeping a careful distance but sliding his arm out of her grip so they could lace their fingers together instead. "I would never hurt you, beloved. Not willingly, not ever. You know that, right?"

She managed a shaky smile. "Yes. But thank you, anyway, for saying so." She yawned. "And, Cullen?"

"Hmm?" Her yawn was contagious.

"I love you."

"Mmmm... Kelandris, I love you, too."


	5. Feast on Her Anguish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The other four went roughly in order from dark to light. This one does not follow that pattern. This one is not light. It is very, very dark. You have been warned.
> 
>  
> 
> **Mentions of major character death.**

Anguish was enjoying himself. Itself, strictly speaking – demons were genderless. But Anguish had settled comfortably into this form, and adopting the associated pronouns was the natural thing to do. He flexed his claws, admiring the play of torchlight over the jagged red crystals – he _liked_ this form. It came with such power, so much potential for destruction. Below him, his latest victim twitched fitfully. His red Templars had caught another Inquisition scout straying too close to their little fortress, and obediently delivered her to him to play with. Not before taking out some aggression on her, first, of course – with one notable exception, Anguish did not demand his captives unspoiled. It was good to let his soldiers vent. It kept them relatively pliant, and ensured there was little temptation to interfere with the Inquisitor. _She_ was his, and his alone.

Although, the demon would have had them beat this prisoner, anyway, had they not been inclined to do so already. It was not simply senseless cruelty, though he did enjoy sampling the helpless terror of his victims as they came face-to-face with half a squad of restless, lyrium-infested brutes – no, Anguish wanted each new captive brought to roughly the same physical condition as Kelandris, and she had been enjoying his tender mercies for a while now. That way, he could rehearse her eventual death in as high fidelity as possible. He would only have one chance to get it right, after all, so the practice was important. And it helped – with every iteration, the demon honed his technique, adding more precision, more finesse, more control. This latest victim, for instance, had been suffering beneath his talons for exactly four days, seventeen hours, and twenty nine minutes. Anguish estimated he could draw out another three hours of torment before she died. Three and a half, actually, if he was careful – and he always was.

At this point, the poor scout no longer resembled something human as much as a quivering mass of shredded flesh. Her feelings were no longer particularly interesting, either, having degenerated into pure, unthinking agony. The pain was nice, but not as an end unto itself – he preferred other emotions along with pain. With Inquisition captives, the beginning was the best part – that moment of confused horror when they saw his stolen face, the disbelief that quickly turned to despair as he answered their shocked gazes with an ironic salute and a crystal-encrusted gauntlet to the face. But sweet as that was, nothing could compare to his Inquisitor's reactions... He could feel her in the back of his mind even now, seething with impotent rage and barely-suppressed fear, awash in a sea of torment and grief. And all of it was tinged by an undercurrent that she couldn't ignore, no matter how much she struggled against it: she loved him, still. Every time he smiled at her, touched her, whispered endearments in that deep, rich voice that was not his, Kelandris imagined her dear, beloved Commander and despaired a little more. She was thinking of him, now, in fact. Anguish paused in his work to savor the feel of her in his mind. Even huddled alone in her cell, she was a veritable banquet of... well, anguish. She was his prize, the greatest gift he had ever been given, and the demon intended to drain her for all she was worth.

To that end, he returned his focus to the remains of the girl in front of him. She was splayed out on a large stone slab, now slick with blood and gore – dungeons always seemed to feature an excessive number of these, adorned with chains or spikes or manacles in various configurations. This particular fortress had no less than four. Anguish had claimed the largest, this time, and he made good use of the space, carefully teasing skin from muscle from bone and arranging it all into artful patterns – a masterpiece in scarlet and ivory, set against a backdrop of dark stone. He traced another few strokes in his victim's flesh, watching her twitch helplessly with a cruel smirk curled across his lips. This one had screamed a lot, early on, but that had ceased around the end of the second day. They always screamed, sooner or later – and sometime after that, they always _stopped_ screaming. Eventually.

It had been difficult, at first, to keep his captives alive for as long as he intended, and even more difficult to keep their mortal minds from simply shattering under his torture. His first couple playthings had barely lasted two days. The answer came, as it often did, in the form of blood magic. One of the mages that had summoned him here had introduced him to the most wonderful spell: a glyph of lucidity. It was intended to help blood mages push themselves past the point of exhaustion, to keep them from snapping beneath the strain of too much dangerous magic in too short a time – but it fit his purposes perfectly as well. It kept his victims awake and relatively aware, even as he mutilated their bodies beyond the point that normal minds could bear. He could explore new heights of pain, and drink deeply from their intact emotions as he did so... It was beautiful.

He looked forward to finally trying it out on Kelandris. He would, when it came time to kill her, but first he wanted to break her will. His Inquisitor was strong, and resilient as well, incredibly so – but even she was beginning to splinter around the edges. Anguish took great pleasure in preying upon her most precious memories. He found the things she loved most about her Commander and twisted them, turning her own passion against her. It was amazingly effective. She _still_ felt spikes of futile hope when he woke her just the way the real Cullen used to, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead or tenderly stroking her hair... Every time he crushed that spark of hope was as sweet as the first. Kelandris was magnificent— the way she glared defiance, even as his crimson talons pierced her flesh; the flash of hate and grief she felt whenever he whispered her name; the silent tears she shed, for herself and Cullen both, but only in the privacy of her cell – refusing to be vulnerable in front of him, unless he forced it out of her... Anguish thought he could understand why the real Commander was so drawn to her.

It helped that he caught glimpses into Cullen's mind, occasionally, as well, when his anguish touched hers. He already bore the mental scars of old wounds that had left him frayed around the edges, but now that he had lost his Inquisitor— he blazed like a beacon with worry and fear, barely kept in check by a steely determination. Breaking that iron grip would be fun. Almost as much fun as feasting on Kelandris. She was a steady, rich font of suffering, and could easily keep him sated for a very long time. Her Commander, on the other hand... he would not provide a slow, constant stream of emotion. Instead, he would simply _shatter_. Anguish had a plan for them both, and it would be his crowning achievement. It was also the reason he required a steady stream of captives: to pull it off, he would have to time his Inquisitor's death very carefully – down to the minute – and for that, he needed to hone his skills.

He would not put his plan into motion for a long while yet – there was still so much pain he could squeeze out of her – but when he did... He would give the Inquisition a trail to follow. And while they scrambled to chase him down, Kelandris would suffer. She would give him one last, glorious bounty of agony— until finally, her true beloved arrived at her side.

Just in time to watch her die in his arms.

With her final breath, she would curse his name, too far gone to see that his eyes were amber and not scarlet, or to notice that no jagged crystals marred his flesh. And Cullen, her sweet, precious, devoted Commander, would splinter and crack beneath the tide of guilt and sorrow that would come in the wake of her passing. He would scream his throat bloody beside her broken, battered body, blind to everything but grief—

Blind, that is, until he looked up at last to find a demon standing over him. Staring into his own eyes, the Commander would see just who it was who had killed his darling Inquisitor, and he would _break_. Completely. His mind would shatter into a million tiny, sharp, screaming pieces... And Anguish, laughing, would feast on his pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someday when I'm feeling particularly cruel, I will probably write her death.
> 
> That will be fun. (I sound like Anguish now.)


End file.
